


From The Grave

by SeahorseJellyfish53



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Namor the Sub-Mariner (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Worldbuilding, a ton of OCs - Freeform, a ton of hcs, author is clueless and trying, non superhero related worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:40:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22620376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeahorseJellyfish53/pseuds/SeahorseJellyfish53
Summary: Kamar's back. Llyra's back. Eel mush hits the fan.orIn which Kamar is both mad and tired, Namor starts going grey, a plucky bunch of idiots get involved(or dragged in), and Llyra is terrible in a non-laughable kind of way.
Kudos: 1





	From The Grave

**Author's Note:**

> Wooo first fic ever! Woo...  
> I have no idea what I'm doing but I got anchored into the Subby fandom and there isn't enough Kamar stuff.

The electric glows of the eels lit up the thick black haze. Each little bit of lighting was enough to jolt down a full grown Atlantean. And if electricity wasn’t enough, there was also the venom.

They circled around the chasm of thousands of fallen gifts and traps that had set sail upon the vast blue that was the ocean. Layers and layers of junk and treasure, all compacted into a vast chasm, angrily knifed into the dark bottom of the ocean’s deepest floor.

And holding what Namor had been searching for through years of distraction and hardships, of loss and blood.  
  


The Hoarder’s Kingdom, an urban legend told to explain away all the lost sandals, missing cuffs, and dropped figures of the Atlantean children, a story that had spread and changed its shape and sound until every section of Atlantis had their own version. The East claimed it was a secret sect of an Atlantean temple, separated when their land first rejected the surface. The West said it was the very mouth of the evil god Set’s mouth, where you could wander too far and fall down the throat. And in the capital city, parents tucked their children in and kissed their head and gave them a tale of the secret treasure mound of the gods, where they would take good children who ate all their food and did their schoolwork could go when they dreamed. And according to Abira, who had the song of the Seven Seas in her very mind, it was where the impromptu tomb of his son, Kamar, was located.

“But everything is hazy, everything is drowned and turning and stinging.” Abira had warned. But Namor had chased and was chasing hope for so long and to have something so close to his grasp, he will not be dragged down by any doubt.  
  


So there he was, after a month or year or week of following the currents, listening to the faint call of something out of his reach, of gripping the map Abira provided almost to nothingness. And all the eels, the hands that kept crawling through his vision, the oily texture of the very water around him that seemed so wrong, will not stop a father from giving his son a burial long overdue.

He shot through the water. Past the eels, the electricity was ignored but the venom stung. Still, he pushed on. In the dark, water clouded his lungs and engulfed his breath and churned with buzzing.

Namor broke through the wall of electric eels. His very skin felt wrong, whether it be by venom or the pure presence of the Hoarder’s Kingdom and all its corpses. Still, he was in.

He was dwarfed by structures of both surface and underwater design. Some were crumbling down. Others were pristine. And for some reason, none were claimed by sea life or sea plants, none had become bones for new life like their brethren who became roots for new reefs or hiding spots for fish. It was like their very presence chased off any life looking for something to anchor to. And as Namor pushed forwards, the water got thicker.

Finally, wedged between a 17th century pirate ship and a WW2 era German submarine that churned up memories meant to be pushed down, was the caved-in roof of a facility with a SHIELD logo, collapsed down into the sea ages ago.  
  


Years ago, he had inquired about where his son’s remains were held and was told the facility went missing. And here it was.

He tore down the walls. He pushed away all kinds of crushed shelves and containers. He carefully checked all the codes on the boxes; he couldn’t risk opening something that would endanger Atlantis. Finally, he found the box that, according to the many interrogated, acted as his son’s coffin.  
  


Hands that pried a hull of a destroyer apart carefully opened the box, as if it were the lilac sea fan of an Atlantean noblewoman.

It was empty. Not even a bit of bone dust remained.

  
  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> How the fuck do people write long things and work computers?


End file.
